


Breathe Into Me

by frozenraspberry



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Anorexia, Both are precious cinnamon rolls, Bulimia, Death, Eating Disorders, Fluff, Hospitals, M/M, Nat and Clint are bros, Skinny Steve, Suicide, also i love natasha, massive tw for eating disorder, self harm tw, seriously do not read if you are sensitive to eating disorders, shes my fav
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-05 14:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5379101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozenraspberry/pseuds/frozenraspberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wrote this based on personal experience.</p><p>Also, I can't find a link for it, but go to spotify and look up "Wolf Prize", click on the artist, and listen to a song called "Carmella" while you listen to this. It kills me.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this based on personal experience.
> 
> Also, I can't find a link for it, but go to spotify and look up "Wolf Prize", click on the artist, and listen to a song called "Carmella" while you listen to this. It kills me.

March 12th

 

Steve woke with a blinding headache and a physical ache in his heart. Today marked the second day of his water fast, and the thought of just quitting crossed his mind more than a few times.

It’s okay, let’s just get through the next few hours without eating and then we’ll reevaluate, said the familiar little voice in his head. He was used to being told what to do, so instead of eating breakfast, he stood up (this took a couple tries) and shuffled to the bathroom, where he pulled a cheap, white, dial scale from underneath the sink. His heart began to beat quickly and irregularly as he set it down on the scuffed wood floor, stepping onto it one bony foot at a time. 89 lbs. read the scale. He was well under his goal weight, however that did not mean he could quit.

Steve’s calendar was marked with a huge red ‘X’ over the date, because today was the day of his appointment with an eating disorder specialist that his mother is forcing him to see. The appointment was only two hours and fifty-eight minutes away, and he was unable to do anything but pace in a circle with agonizing anxiety.

You’ll just have to find a way out of the doctor’s grip. Do you want them to make you eat? That’ll only make you fat, you know, threatened the controlling voice in Steve’s head. He had to agree with it.

 

* * *

 

 

An overweight nurse dressed in Snoopy scrubs opened the doctor’s office door.

“Steve Rogers, Dr. Caverly is ready to see you,” she said, “but first, we’ve gotta get your vitals, height, and weight.” Steve and Mrs. Rogers followed the nurse into a small, cramped room in which there was a height ruler in one corner, an enormously intimidating medical grade scale in the other, and a blood pressure cuff on a desk.

“Let’s start with height. Take your shoes off first, no cheating!” She joked.

He slipped out of his worn running shoes and stepped in front of the ruler.

“Steve Rogers, Male, 17 years old, Sixty-four and one-half of an inch,” she muttered as she wrote in on his chart.

“Alright, let’s put this gown on and get a weight.” Steve went to the bathroom and compliantly put on the extremely thin, white, paper gown she handed him. When he came back, the nurse instructed him to turn around.

“What for?” He asked.

“Did they not tell you about blind weigh-ins? Oh honey, are you in for a surprise.” She said with a knowing shake of her head. “You probably won’t be seeing the front of a scale for quite awhile,” she added, looking him over closely.

He turned around and stepped onto the cold scale, itching to turn around and see what his weight was on an expensive medical scale.

“Eighty-Seven” mouthed the nurse to Mrs. Rogers. The colour left her face.

“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s get that blood pressure and then you can see the doc.”

 

* * *

 

 

“So Steve, how can I help you?” asked the fast-talking Dr. Caverly

“Um, I don’t know. I don’t really know why I’m here.” He replied with a stutter.

“Well let’s ask your mother. Mrs. Rogers, what has been going on with your son?”

“Gosh, where do I begin? I think it’s pretty obvious just looking at him. He’s withering away a little more every time I look at him. I don’t really know how often he’s eating at this point, I mean, I used to be able to keep a close eye on him, but lately I’ve had to pull some extra shifts,” she trailed off.

“I think I have a pretty good idea of what’s going on, say no more. Steve, lay down on this table, if you will,” Commanded the doctor. She took his blood pressure again, and he savored the feeling of warm hands on his very cold arm.

“Alright, let’s stand back up.” She took his blood pressure one more time when he stood. She slowly nodded to herself as she looked at the reading.

“I need a minute to talk to you mother alone. Mrs. Rogers, if you’d just follow me into the hall for a moment.”

 

* * *

 

 

“So,” Dr. Caverly began as she and Steve’s mother walked back into the room, “I’m not going to beat around the bush. It looks like you’re going to be hospitalized for a little while.”

Steve felt his heart stop. Five seconds, he counted. His lungs would have no air. “It’s always a little shocking, I know, but you’re severely orthostatic and I’m not really sure how long you’d make it without constant medical watch. Anorexia kills faster than any other mental disorder, you know.”

He cringed at the word ‘anorexia’ and looked over at his mother, who was crying silently, covering her twisted mouth with her hand.

“It’ll be okay, Ma.” He assured her quietly, letting his Brooklyn accent slip through.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve carried a backpack through the door of the Brooklyn Children’s Hospital with his Ma, following a nurse into the elevator.

“It’s really gonna be okay, I can do better,” he said.

“I know you can, Babydoll. I do.” She said, her voice still shaking with quiet sobs. The nurse, who was dressed in solid black scrubs with stunning red hair and a soft voice, led them into a hallway labeled Eating Disorder Ward. Steve had never been more afraid in his life.

“My name is Natasha Romanov, I’m gonna be bugging you tonight. You can call me Nat, by the way.” said the redheaded nurse while she soaked a yellow tube in a basin on ice water.

“What’s the tube for?” asked Steve.

“Well, basically, this is going down your nose and into your stomach so I can save your life.” She answered frankly.

“Oh. No one told me about that.” Said Steve, dumbstruck.

“You’ll have to get used to that, then. There are a lot of things we do around here that we don’t ask you guys about. It’s all to keep you alive, though.” She explained while she took the tube and sat on the edge of his bed.

“Are you ready? You can take a minute, if you need. This will probably hurt,” she said.

“Let’s just get it over with, then.” Steve sighed.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve scanned the common room while he messed with the tube that was taped to his cheek, feeling out of place as the only one carrying about a backpack full of formula. He tallied seven waifish girls, three average looking girls, one obese girl, and one other very skinny boy. One very skinny, very good-looking boy, with chin length brown hair, sweet grey eyes, and a jawline for days. He sat with Natasha, playing Go-Fish with the nurse. He padded over to them, his grippy-yellow-hospital-socks sticking to the white linoleum floor with each step.

“Mind if I join you guys?” he asked Jawline For Days.

“Sure, if you like losing.” The boy smirked. “I’m James. James Buchanan Barnes, but you could call me Bucky.”

“Okay, Bucky,” Steve smiled, “My name is Steve Rogers, but you could call me whatever you want to,” he flirted.

“I like Steve,” Bucky laughed. “Sit down, I don’t wanna pummel Nat alone.”

“Get real Barnes, you know I just let you win cause you’re all sickly and I feel sorry for you.” Natasha sassed as Bucky handed him a stack of playing cards.

“Okay, Bucky, do you have any ‘7’s?” asked Steve.

“Nope, go fishing,” he replied. “Your turn, Nat.”

“Alright, Steve. Got any ‘Queens’?” asked Natasha. Bucky burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny? Am I missing something?” Steve asked, looking back and forth from the heap of Bucky on the floor to Nat’s smug grin.

“No, no, never you mind.” Bucky said, just recovering from his laughing fit.

“God dammit James, new admits are friends, not food,” called the obese girl, “I’m Patty, bee-tee-doubleyou. You’re Steve, I heard.”

“Yeah, nice you meet you,” Steve said.

“Wanna do the honors of introducing him to everybody, Barnes?” asked Natasha.

“You know me too well, Nat.” he replied with a bright grin.

He stood up from the card game, offering a hand to Steve to help him up. Steve took it, his hand was wonderfully warm, and covered in telling scars. Bucky pretended not to notice Steve’s staring. He took his hand back and Steve followed him toward the group of very thin girls. “These are the anorexics,” explained Bucky, “They think they’re a special bunch of snowflakes but they’re just as fucked up as the rest of us,” he whispered, leaning into Steve so the girls didn’t hear him. He was entranced and kind of jealous of the figures of the girls sitting at the table.

“That’s Polly,” he gestured to a dark haired girl, “That’s Caroline,” he nodded toward a short blonde, “Rachel, Beth, Polly N., and Susan,” he gestured toward four girls all sitting on the same side of a small, square table.

“Guys, this is Stevie. Don’t be too tough on him, he’s new.” Bucky said. Caroline leaned towards Polly and whispered something about ‘ugh’ and ‘boys with their perfect legs’.

“Ignore them. Let’s go meet my tribe.” Bucky pulled him away from the anorectics and moved toward a group of three more girls, sitting on a bright blue, stained sofa, all crocheting different articles of clothing in the same shade of pearlescent blue yarn.

“Right to left, that’s Peggy, Felicia, Betty, and Claude.” They all looked up at the same time, apparently a little annoyed that someone would interrupt their crafts.

“Ah, Bucky. Fresh meat, huh?” asked the girl with a dark brown bob in an English accent.

“Be nice to him Peggy. Remember, I’ve got a heavy load of dirt on you,” Bucky said knowingly.

Peggy looked outwardly frightened, but quickly plastered on a smile. “I’m Peggy, but you knew that already. You are…?”

“I’m Steve,” he said shyly.

“Bucky, it’s just nearing 6:15, have you prepped Steve about what’s about to happen?” Peggy asked, changing the subject.

“Oh, shit, I almost forgot,” Bucky grabbed his shoulders, “Stevie, at roughly 6:15, Natasha or whoever is on duty is going to yell,” he glanced at the clock, “’Let’s sit everybody’. And then the kitchen staff is going to wheel out all of our food and they’re going to make you sit down at one of those tables over there,” he gestured to the five tables all sitting in a row, “and eat all of yours. If you can’t, which no one expects you to on your first day, you’re going to drink a Boost.” Bucky explained hurriedly.

“A Boost?” Steve asked, sounding very confused and nervous.

“Yeah, it’s like a supplement. It tastes like shit, so I’d recommend you try to finish your food.”

Steve glanced at the clock; it was 6:11.

“Okay everyone, let’s sit,” called Natasha.

“Dammit, I thought they’d go easy on your first day.” said Bucky, “Come sit next to me.” He took Steve’s small hand in his scarred one.

 

* * *

 

March 13th

 

It was 10:47 PM and Steve lay crying in his hospital bed.

“It’s gonna be okay, Stevie, you did real well today.” Bucky said. He happened to be in the room across from Steve’s, so when he heard the muffled cries, he climbed out of his bed and padded over to lie in Steve’s.

“I’m just so full, I feel like a failure,” Steve sniffled, “I feel so fat.”

“C’mon, dollface, you’re so skinny. I feel like I could break you just by laying here with you.” Bucky tried his best to comfort him.

“You don’t know Bucky, you’re so- I don’t know- you’re really pretty and I’m just me,” Steve’s tiny body racked with sobs.

“Don’t even start with that, Stevie, you’re perfect. I knew it the minute I saw you,” he said softly, one arm wrapped around him to rub wide circles over his back.

“And I’m not pretty, in case you haven’t noticed, my hand looks like something out of a horror film. I’ve gagged myself so many times I can’t even try to guess how many. This hand will always remind me of that pain,” he whispered and a tear strolled down his face too.

 

* * *

 

 

March 14th

 

Natasha walked into Steve’s room at 3:07 in the morning to find Steve and Bucky wrapped up under the thick blanket together.

“Called it.” She said to herself, before waking the both of them for morning weigh-ins.

“Mornin’ Stevie,” whispered Bucky, still half asleep.

“Buck.” Steve mumbled. “Wait,” he said, realizing where he was and who else was in the room, “Natasha this is not what it looks like, Buckywakeupohmygod-“

Nat laughed, “Don’t worry, lover boys, I won’t tell,” she said cheerfully. “However, you do need to get up, it’s time to get weights.”

“We’re not- never mind,” sighed Steve.

Steve and Bucky both changed into paper gowns and wrapped themselves in blankets, waddling over to get in line in front of the scale.

 

* * *

It was half past 10, Steve and Bucky were sitting on that bright blue couch just after morning snack, and that was the first time it happened- Bucky leaned over and pressed the most lightweight, chaste kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth.

“Ohmygod- I- I should not have done that. You- uh- looked really cute just now-“ Bucky stammered and backed up, averting his eyes.

 

The End…?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep listening to Wolf Prize as you read.

March 16th

            It’s been four days since Steve was admitted to the Eating Disorders Ward of the Brooklyn Children’s Hospital. It’s the third night in a row that Bucky has slept in his bed with him. It’s been two days since Bucky first kissed him, and his life of 17 years has never felt sweeter.

            3:58 AM rolled around and the alarm that Steve set on his phone is ringing obnoxiously. He shifted in Bucky’s arms to face him, and brushed the loose hair out of his face to wake him.

            “You’ve gotta wake up, Natasha will be in here any second to get vitals,” he whispered.

            “Then tell her to leave, Stevie, I’m dead,” Bucky mumbled, still mostly asleep.

            “Did I hear something about ‘dead’?” asked the redhead who had just brusquely opened the large door and wheeled in a vitals machine. “Cause no one’s dying on my watch,” she added.

            “See, Buck? You’ve gotta sit up,” Steve whispered and tugged on the front of Bucky’s grey ‘Brooklyn University Medical Center’ sweatshirt. Steve sat up himself and held out his arm as Natasha wheeled the bulky machine over to the side of the bed and leaned against the bed rails as she wrapped the child sized blood pressure cuff around Steve’s arm.

            “Systolic is 89… diastolic is 48, heart rate is 38 beats per minute,” she muttered as she charted the information.

“Stand up.” He clambered out of the bed, nearly falling as Bucky finally sat upright, reaching to hold Steve’s shoulders to support him.

            “Standing is 117 over 49,” she continued charting. “Alright, Barnes, your turn, give me your arm,” she said, and wrapped the ‘preteen’ cuff around Bucky’s arm.

            “103 over 94. Up,” She demanded, with an impatient tinge in her voice due to the overwhelming number of patients she would need to get vitals from before she could go back to playing darts with Clint in the nurse’s station.   

            “Standing is 121 over 106, heart rate is 73,” she muttered, “Vitals look alright tonight, if I do say so myself, Barnes,” she smiled. “Well, I’m off. Back to cuddling for you, boys,” she added with a smirk. As she wheeled the machine out of the room, and loud beep from Steve’s formula monitor pierced the silence. Natasha backed up into the room again.

            “You’re going to need another bag of formula, I’ll send Barton in for that,” she said. “Barnes, I would go back to your own room if I were you, you guys are lucky I let you share,” she added before leaving the room again.

            Bucky sat back on top of the soft, white, blanket.

“Will you come back when Barton leaves? I don’t like sleeping alone in here; it freaks me out and-“ Bucky interrupted Steve’s sentence with a soft kiss.

            “Just signal me back with a bird call or something when he comes back,” he joked and quickly hopped over the bed rail to pad back to his own room, across the hallway.

            “Rogers?” asked a nurse dressed in royal purple scrubs, who Steve hadn’t met before. “I’m Clint Barton. I’ll be your nurse’s assistant for the next couple of days,” he said with a warm smile.      

            “It’s good to meet you, I’m Steve,” he said while Clint gathered materials to clean up his IV port. “I think Natasha said something about another bag of formula?”

            “Sure did,” Clint started, “Usually you guys don’t remind me about that, though.”

            “Well, maybe I was a little scared of what Natasha would do to me if I didn’t remind you,” Steve joked.

            “Honestly, I’m scared of her too. You should see how well that woman can play darts, I think she’s an assassin on the side or something,” Clint laughed, “Anyway, I’ll get you hooked up with a new bag and then I’ll be on my merry way.”

            After a couple of minutes, Steve had a new bag of formula traveling into his stomach via the tube in his nose, and Clint was out of the room.

            “Coo! Coooooooooooo!” Steve called across the hall, doing the best owl impersonation (imbirdation? who can tell) he could.

            Across the hall, Bucky peered out of his room, looked both ways, and went quickly back to Steve’s room. He climbed back over the bedrail and under the covers.         

            “Do you have any elastics? I wanna play with your hair,” Steve whispered.

“You’re in luck,” Bucky laughed, “I happen to have a habit of stealing the girl’s scrunchies while they’re getting weights. C’mon, I’ll show you my collection.” He took Steve’s hand in his scarred one and the two of them snuck quickly across the hall, silently thanking the game of darts that was keeping the nurses occupied.

            Bucky closed the door behind them and flipped a light switch to reveal a catastrophically messy room, with at least a hundred books strewn over the floor, thousands of loose papers all over the place, and a typewriter that looked like it had been built in the 30’s on his bed-table.

            “You didn’t tell me you wrote,” Steve whispered, awestruck at the sheer quantity of paper that decorated the small room.

            “I don’t _write_ , per say,” Bucky started, “I just vent to my Ma’s old typewriter.”

            “I think that counts as writing, Buck.” Steve said.

            “Whatever you say, dollface,” he said, eager to change the subject, “I believe you wanted to see some stolen scrunchies, correct?” He asked with a smirk.

            “That’s right,” Steve said as Bucky led him to a large, locked, metal box. He slid a small key from under his bed and unlocked it, opening it to reveal a truly fantastic array of coloured scrunchies. “Take you’re pick,” he said with a smirk. Steve picked a red one, a silver one, and a black one, before they both sat on the yellow home blanket sitting on Bucky’s bed. Steve sat behind him and began running his fingers through his chin-length, wavy hair.

            “So how long have you been here? I mean, if you don’t mind saying,” Steve asked.

            “It’s been about a month and a half, now.” He answered, quietly, sounding embarrassed.

            “Is that a long time for this kind of thing?” Steve questioned.

            “Yeah, most of the people who come through here only stay for a week, usually less, actually.”

            “How come they’ve kept you here so long?” Steve asked while pulling Bucky’s hair into a messy bun with the silver scrunchie.

            “I would ask them, but I think it has something to do with the fact that I keep tossing in their toilets.” Bucky said in a bitter tone.

            “Oh,” Steve said, quietly. That would explain the fresh abrasions on his knuckles.

            “I know; us bulimics are gross. I really should switch to your team,” Bucky said, maintaining the bitterness in his voice.

            “Do you really think I’m having fun, Buck?” Steve asked. “I can’t stand up most of the time. My heart and lungs are fucked, indefinitely. I see myself in mirrors and all I see is fat. Sometimes I think about killing myself when they bring out dinner. It’s not the way the girls make it sound-,” Steve ranted, not realizing the tears that began the fall down his cheekbones.

            “I know, dollface. Don’t think I can’t see you in pain. Every time I look at you at that table the only thing I can think about is ways to get back at whoever hurt you so bad that you didn’t feel like surviving. I see you.” He said, allowing the softness to return to his voice. “It’s you and me, til’ the end of the line. I’m gonna see you get through this, believe me,” he whispered, allowing that Brooklyn drawl to come through. Steve wiped the tears on his face with his sleeve and returned to Bucky’s hair. By the end of the night, it was in twin buns with rows of red, black, and silver scrunchies decorating both.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True fact: in eating disorder treatment you are transported back to the 80's and everyone wears scrunchies. don't ask why.  
> Another true fact: I literally wrote this in my Vanderbilt University Medical Center sweatshirt. These are the benefits of being hospitalized for over a month and making friends w the nurses BD


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter...

December 17th, 2009

 

            Bucky Barnes was 12 years old. His therapist was in the room next to the one he was in, talking to his foster mom, and Bucky was eavesdropping.

            “Is everything alright, Dr. Fury?” asked the voice that Bucky identified as his foster mother.

            “That would depend on your definition of ‘alright’,” started the therapist,

“Bucky is suffering from severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. When he talks to his imaginary friends, it’s not just a game to him. It’s coping. All of those little quirks you’ve complained about to me are symptoms. Do you understand the severity of what I’m telling you?” Dr. Fury asked, in a slightly condescending tone.

            “I do- but- what does he need?” The woman stammered.

            “He needs stability. Certainty. He needs someone to tell him what happened to his parents,” said the therapist, “he’s a smart boy. He _knows_ that they were not in a car accident. You can tell him, or I can.”

            “I- don’t you think it would be better if you told him? I think he likes you, I’m not really too sure about myself-,” started Bucky’s foster mom.

            “Say no more. I’ll go tell him now.” Dr. Fury walked swiftly to join him, and closed the door.

            “So, Bucky. Because I know you were just listening to the conversation I was having with Stephanie, I assume you’d like some answers about your parents.”

            “Yeah,” said Bucky, in a soft, childish voice.

“Well, I’m gonna give it to you straight. Your father and your mother had an argument. You remember, don’t you? There was a lot of yelling. Then there was a loud noise. That was a gunshot; your father fired it at your mother. She screamed, and then she went quiet. Then a couple minutes later,”

“It was three minutes and seven seconds, sir.” Bucky said.

“That’s right. Three minutes and seven seconds later, there was another loud noise, a gunshot. Your father shot himself in the head and died instantly. Then, your next door neighbor called the police.” Dr. Fury finished. “This is the truth, Bucky. And I’m going to help you through it.” 

 

November 31st, 2013

 

            Bucky was 16. He’d been sitting on his knees in the bathroom for at least 45 minutes, pressing his fingers are far back into his throat as he could manage. The vodka burned on it’s way back up.

 

May 20th, 2015 

            Bucky was 18. He’d been laying in bed with the boy who may or may not have been the love of his life for at least 2 hours, shutting his eyes while Steve kissed every part of his face, starting with both of his eyelids, traveling down the length of his nose, both of his cheekbones, his chin, his jaw, everything inbetween, reaching his lips last. Bucky rolled over to face him, deepening the kiss and eliciting and small, desperate whine from Steve’s throat.

            Bucky had not felt the burn of stomach acid crawling the already sensitive skin of his throat in 8 days.

            Bucky hadn’t needed to think about waiting 30 minutes to brush his teeth in 8 days.

            Bucky had not screamed in his bed as the nightmare racked through his body in 8 days.

            He hadn’t cried and begged for morphine due to a pounding migraine in 8 days.

            He hadn’t felt his fingernails rip his own skin open in 8 days.

           

Maybe this was what ‘getting better’ what. Maybe ‘getting better’ was blond hair and crystalline blue eyes and bony fingers through his hair and a soft voice and the way it said ‘Mornin’ like it wasn’t really awake and the way his heart physically stopped for awhile when his eyes met with Steve’s. Maybe self-destruction came off the table when his eyes met with Steve’s

 

            “I love you,” Bucky whispered.

            “I don’t believe you,” Steve whispered back.

            “It doesn’t matter if you do or not, cause it’s a fact.”

            “… I love you too.”

 

* * *

 

 

            “Oh my fuck, Barton, would you mind yanking my hair a little harder?” Natasha asked sarcastically over her shoulder as Clint was French-braiding her brilliantly red hair.

            “Well, you know what they say about hair,” he muttered, “’If it doesn’t hurt, you aren’t doing it right’.”

            “Who told you that?” Nat asked

            “Everyone, Nat. Literally everyone says that.”

            “You’re so full of shit, I can’t even talk to you,” she laughed.

 

 

May 21st

 

“Something’s up, Buck. I can smell it, you smell like angst,” Steve smiled.

            “You don’t wanna know, dollface. I can’t tell you.” He said; his voice clipped.

The truth was, Bucky had received a discharge date, which was exactly one week from then. Which meant leaving. Which meant leaving Steve.

            “You gotta,” he laughed, trying his damnedest to lighten the mood.

            “Fine,” he snapped, “I’m leaving. They’re kicking me out. They say I’m all better, and insurance sure as fuck isn’t gonna argue with that, so I’m out.”

“Buck-“

“And you’re here. Do you know what happens when people leave people here? They never talk again, and on the off chance that they do, it’s one time, and then they realize that the only thing they had in common was that the same nurse got them naked every morning- and you know- I don’t think I can deal with that. Not with you.”

            “You don’t have to do that with me, I’ll write you the whole time,”

            “None of that matters, Stevie, I’ve gotta go. Therapy beckons,” he said bitterly, and just like that, he left Steve alone.

 

He did not have therapy, unless therapy meant a date with the Porcelain God.

 

 

May 28th

 

            During their last week together, time took a more curious route than usual. The night of the 21st moved like every minute was the time it took for a train to cross in front of you, only without the art spray-painted on the train car, and Steve hated every second of it. The next six days travelled like a car threatening to give up, stopping in between each kiss, and starting back up with a jolt every time. And then there was the 28th, the last night. There was not a moment in which time existed for Steve and Bucky. Natasha managed to get them excused from every group, no doctor’s appointments, and minimal interruptions. There was not a moment that passed without Bucky’s hands on Steve, or the other way around.

            “When I come home,” Steve started, “am I still yours?” He whispered.

            “Till’ the end of the line, doll.” Bucky said, running his thumb over his protruding ribs.

           

* * *

 

_June 7 th _

_Stevie –_

_I miss you. I’m coming apart without you, dollface. I miss those eyes. This letter isn’t gonna be too long, I can’t think about you for too long, hurts a lot. I just wanna tell you that I fuckin’ miss you._

-       _Barnes_

_June 12 th _

_Buck,_

_Don’t come apart. If you come apart, I will too. That’s a promise. I thought I liked this place, turned out I only like you. If it weren’t for my fear of Natasha assassinating me, I would break out of here. Also, I still can’t inhale or stand up too well, so I think that throws a wrench in the plan too. Please write me back, even if it’s just a sentence. I just gotta know you’re still there._

_-Steve_

_June 15 th _

_Still here._

-       _Barnes_

_June 20 th _

_Bucky –_

_How does meeting up for coffee, realizing that the one thing we had in common was the same nurse getting us naked every morning, sound? I’m outta here. They showed me a weight (by showed I mean they didn’t tackle me as I turned around to see it) and I’m at 104 now, so I’m out. Come get me. June 30 th. _

_Please write back ASAP,_

_Steve._

_June 25 th_

_Doll-_

_I’ll be there. You don’t know how much I miss you. Or maybe you do. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be there, maybe pick you up in a pumpkin carriage or something real grand like that. I love you._

_-B_

June 30th

            It’s the day. It’s the day, and Steve is panicking. It’s 7:30, Natasha is late with the vitals machine, it’s the day, and Steve is not okay. Maybe Bucky was right. Maybe what they had was a trick that the hospital itself played on the both of them.

           

“Weights!”

Everything happened so quickly

“Let’s sit, you guys.” -

“Alright, Steve, lets get that tube outta your nose.” -

“You’ve just gotta sign a couple papers, then you can go. I’ll miss you, you know.”

            “I’ll miss you too, Nat.”

 

* * *

 

 

Steve hugged Natasha one more time. Then Clint. Then Natasha, again. And just like that, he walked out the same hallway he walked into, with the same suitcase in his shaking hand.

            After a ten-minute walk through the hospital (it should have taken five, but someone was stalling) he made it finally though the automatic doors, walked out under the big ‘Brooklyn Children’s Hospital’ sign, and his hands began to shake.

            “I’ve got a pumpkin carriage for a Steve Rogers over here,” called an unmistakable voice.

            “Bucky!” Steve yelled, involuntarily. He swiveled around until his eyes landed on him and the earth stopped spinning. He looked like he hadn’t slept for a month; his clothes were dirty, eyes red, hands shaking. He looked like hell, and Steve followed suit, but they were heaven on earth to each other. Steve crossed the 20 yards or so that sat in between them, immediately gluing his hands to Bucky’s sides. His entire body was shaking.

            “I missed ya, Stevie.” He said, wrapping both arms around his neck, as his legs were almost giving out.

            “God, Buck. I missed you too. I can’t even tell you, fuck-“ he said, wiping the tears from the taller boy’s face as they rolled down. “You’re shaking, Buck. It’s gonna be okay,” they both collapsed on the pavement.

            “You’ve gotta breathe, baby,” Steve whispered and rested Bucky’s head on his shoulder. “Breathe into me, Buck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Bitch you THOUGHT. 
> 
> But for real, should I write an epilogue? Comment whether it's a good idea or not. Please let me know if this sucked or not, as well.


	4. End: Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fuckin fic was supposed to be like 2 chapters tops, but then you guys kept pulling me back in, so here we are (with more scrunchies). bon appetite.

22:14, Dec 22nd, 2018

 

 

 

     Bucky Barnes is 21 years old, but he feels 16 again. The vodka burns on the way back up. The memories do too.

 

 

 

06:34, Dec 23rd, 2018

 

     "Mornin, babe," Steve whispered, laying next to him in their small Brooklyn apartment in a full-size bed, with a huge red comforter, smoothing back Bucky's chin-length hair.

 

"Stevie," he mumbled, rolling over to face him. "How was the exhibition?"

 

"It was okay, I mean, people bought the art. Doesn't make the compliments any easier to take," he said.

 

"You deserve em', doll," he sat up, "People don't say that shit for no reason," he said, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

 

"Whatever you say," Steve said, changing the subject. "I'll go put on some coffee."

 

Bucky responded by groaning as Steve attempted to climb out of bed, and pulling him back down by his paint splattered Christmas sweater.

 

"Coffee could wait," he said.

 

"Mmhmmm," Bucky mumbled, curling himself around his smaller body, pulling the soft blanket over their heads. Steve took his left hand, and rubbed soft circles over the many, white, scars that decorated it.

 

     His breath hitched as he felt new cracks in the skin, just scabbing over. A sheet of tears sprung to his eyes as he looked at his boyfriend, who averted his eyes nervously.

 

“Uh- I think I’ll go put on that coffee, now.” Bucky said, pulling the blanket back down and clambering out of bed.

 

 _It was nothing; he’s okay. It was just a scratch, from something else_ , Steve tried to rationalize the cuts on Bucky’s hand. The holiday stress has been getting to him, it’s not like Steve hadn’t noticed. He saw the way he paced around, aimlessly tracing the same circle into the floor. He saw how Bucky wasn’t sleeping, and how his hands shook slightly all day. He assumed that it was just holiday stress, anyway. Bucky could be hard to read sometimes, he had a knack for hiding his emotions. His parents died around this time of year when he was 12, _he’s probably just sad about it,_ Steve thinks, trying to rid his head of the thoughts that cried ‘ _relapse’_. God knows neither of them could take that.

    

     “Stevie, you want pancakes?” Bucky called from the kitchen to the bedroom, his sleepy voice breaking through his thoughts.

 

“Were you gonna make em’ anyway?” Steve questioned.

 

“Uh huh.” He replied.

 

“Okay, I’ll come help,” Steve said, glad to have a distraction.

 

He put one of Bucky’s bigger sweatshirts over his sweater and a second pair of socks on his feet, because it was December in Brooklyn, and shuffled into the kitchen.

   

  Bucky was standing over an aluminum mixing bowl, artfully stirring flour into milk and melted butter, eyeballing it until it looked like pancake batter.

    

     “Can we make the chocolate kind?” Steve asked, reaching into a cream-colored cabinet for the carton of cocoa powder.

   

     “Sure thing, dollface,” he said, with a bright gleam in his eyes, “Get out the sugar too, then.” Steve pressed onto the tip of his toes to reach the sugar, which was placed unfortunately on the top shelf.

     “Lemme’ get that,” he could feel Bucky’s voice from behind him as he reached over Steve’s head to get the sugar. His wrist looked crooked, odd, or maybe just thin. Steve pretended not to see, just like he pretended not to notice the multiple pairs of pajama pants Bucky was wearing, and the heightened cheekbone definition on his face.

    

     Steve turned around to face him, and rested his hands on Bucky’s upper arms as he gently kissed him. Bucky returned the kiss, “I love you,” he whispered.

    

     “’Love you back.” Steve said, eyes still closed. “Now go finish those pancakes,” he laughed, pushing him towards the mess of flour.

  

     He went back to the large bowl, scooped a half cup of each sugar and cocoa powder in, and began cracking eggs into the mix, whisking in between each one. Steve put a skillet over the gas stove, setting it to medium heat. After one last whisk, Bucky brought the bowl over and began ladling the batter onto the pan, listening to the satisfying sizzle.

    

     “I’m gonna go put on a record,” Steve started, “what’d you wanna hear?”

 

     “Whatever you want, baby doll,” Bucky said, leaning against the counter, shifting his attention from the pancake.

 

     “What if I wanna hear Babes in Toyland?” He asked, half-joking.

 

     “Anything’s game,” Bucky said, challenging him.

 

     “Fine then, it’s 7:00 in the morning and we’re listening to Fontanelle.” Steve said, grinning as he unsleeved the record and placed it onto the turntable.

 

09:01 Dec 23rd

     Bucky is curled over the porcelain once again, guilt flooding over his body as he heaves the chocolate pancakes into the white bowl. The shower is turned on, turned to the highest pressure so his boyfriend wouldn’t hear him. The hot water makes the air humid, makes the air heavy, but Bucky likes the weight of it. It’s familiar.

 

20:13 Dec 25th

     “I got you a present, Buck,” Steve said, his voice slurred from the excessive eggnog they’d both consumed that night.

 

 

“I guess we’re even then, I got you one.” Bucky grinned, taking Steve’s hand with his right, and leading him from their cheap, floral printed couch, to their fake Christmas tree.

 

 

“’I couldn’t pull enough shifts as I wanted to this month, but I made you this,” Steve said, as he pulled a book-sized, flat, rectangular, sloppily wrapped gift from under the polyurethane branches. Bucky unwrapped the paper in front of his giddy-looking boyfriend to find a framed painting, which he recognized immediately as Steve’s. It was a painting of soft looking, hazelnut colored hair, being worked into a bun with at least 10 different colored scrunchies.

    

     “Is this us- when we were both in the ED ward?” Bucky asked, laughing slightly.

 

“Bingo,” Steve grinned, “Do you like it? It’s okay if you don’t, you can say.”

 

“It’s beautiful, Babydoll,” Bucky reassured him, his voice starting to reflect the eggnog, “But it’ll prob’ly make mine seem really shitty,” he laughed, finding the other present under the tree, meticulously wrapped with a bow, and putting it in Steve’s hands. He immediately shredded the paper like a hamster with cardboard, revealing both a new angled paintbrush, and an industrial sized box of red scrunchies. This year’s trend was set.

 

     “This is amazing,” Steve giggled, falling back onto the couch.

 

“Which one?” Bucky asked.

 

“Mostly the scrunchies, but I needed a new angled one, too.” He said, pulling Bucky next to him.

 

“I’m glad you liked it,” Bucky said, resisting Steve’s tugging him down.

 

“C’mon, sit down, Buck,” Steve half-whined.

 

“I need to go take a shower,” Bucky said, letting his hand go.

 

“No you don’t, I know what you’re doing,” Steve said, losing the cheerful atmosphere. “If there’s anyone you can’t fool, it’s me, Buck.” Steve stood up, planting his hands on Bucky’s shoulders. “Look me in the eyes,” he started, his voice loaded with intensity, “and tell me that you’re not about to go hurl.” Bucky averted his stare.

 

“It’s not a big deal, anymore. It’s not how it used to be,” Bucky started.

 

“See! I knew it, you’re textbook, sweetheart,” He said with a sharpness in his voice, letting go of his shoulders and moving to the wall phone.

 

“Wait, Stevie, who’re you calling?” Bucky asked, his voice wavering.

 

“Ghostbusters, Buck, who’d‘ya think? I’m calling Natasha, she’s going to make sure you’re okay, physically.”

 

“Steve, c’mon, I’ll stop, just don’t call-“

 

“I can’t just stand here and let you wither away,” Steve said, starting to raise his voice. “You already don’t look like you, your goddamn head looks like it’s too big for your body; your fucking shoulders are like daggers. We’re getting help.”

 

“It’s not ‘we’, Stevie, this isn’t your choice,” Bucky yelled.

 

“It _is_ my choice, because I _love_ you, and I’m not about to let you kill yourself,” Steve said in an almost-whisper. Bucky opened his mouth, and then closed it, as though he was searching for a retort that he couldn’t find. Finally he resigned, plopping down on the sofa with a sigh.

 

“’Love you too, punk.” He whispered.

 

“Natasha?” Steve asked, his ear pressed against the crimson wall phone. “Can’t talk too much right now, but can you come over tomorrow? Any time’s fine,” he said.

 

“Okay, thanks so much Nat, I’ll see you then. Bye,” he hung up the receiver.

 

“Stevie, I have work tomorrow, remember?” Bucky asked, trying his best to escape the situation.

 

“The hospital will have to wait, Buck. Can’t take care of sick kids when you’re a sick kid yourself.” Steve said, smiling slightly.

 

* * *

 

11:03, Dec 26th

 

“Steve, you in there?” Natasha called from the other side of their door.

 

 

“Yeah, would you give us two seconds, Nat?” Bucky called back, slightly annoyed.

 

 

“Bucky, don’t be an ass,” Steve warned, “She’ll hurt you, she’s probably an hit man on the side or something.” He added as he walked over to let Bucky’s fellow nurse in.

 

 

“Hey sailor,” Natasha said, “It’s been a long time.”

 

 

“It’s been since Halloween, Nat.” Steve said.

 

 

“That’s still a long time,” she said, shifting her attention to Bucky, “But that’s not why we’re here. We’re here to find out where Barnes has been.”

 

 

“Can we get this going, Nat? Kinda sick of it already,” Bucky said.

 

 

“Ignore him, he’s been sour all day,” Steve whispered to Natasha.

 

 

“No problem, I wasn’t looking to make this a long affair anyways. I need to grab my stuff, it’s in my car,” she said, swiftly walking out the door and down the stairs toward her car.

 

 

     She came back up the stairs and into their apartment dragging a hospital grade scale, a paper gown, a stethoscope, and a blood pressure cuff.

“Alright Barnes, it’s gonna be just like old times. Suit up,” she said, handing him the paper gown, and then wheeling the scale onto the kitchen tile.

 

 

“This is a joke,” Bucky said in disbelief, “She’s kidding, right Steve?”

 

 

“I don’t think so, and I’d do what she says if I were you,” Steve answered. Bucky sighed, resigning to the fact that Natasha was probably the scariest woman on earth, and he didn’t much feel like crossing her. He went into the bathroom to change, and came out two minutes later in the blue paper gown.

 

 

“Who said you could wear socks, Barnes?” Natasha asked, looking down at the fuzzy, red and green socks on his feet. Bucky sighed again and took them off. “Good. Turn around,” she said, zeroing the scale. “Step on backward,” she said, and then after a minute, “okay, get off.”

 

 

“Is it okay?” Bucky asked.

 

 

 

“Depends on your definition of okay,” she said, “Let’s do blood pressure.” She wrapped the ‘teen’ blood pressure cuff around his arm, adjusted the stethoscope, and began pumping air into it. “Blood pressure is looking weird,” she muttered to herself. “Sit down.” Bucky sat down on a counter. She took his blood pressure again, waited, and then took a standing blood pressure again.

 

 

 

“Yeah, it’s not looking to good for you.” She said, worry creeping into her voice. “I’m gonna listen to your lungs.” She pressed the cold, metal stethoscope to the right side of Bucky’s chest and held it for a minute, before moving to the left side and holding it, and then listening to his back. “I need to take to Steve for a minute,” She said, grabbing Steve’s arm and pulling him into the living room.

 

 

“I think your boyfriend has emphysema," she whispered heatedly, "we’re going to have to put him in the hospital for a few days, at least, and I’m not even sure that his lungs are the biggest issue. I don’t like his blood pressure either." 

 

 

Steve just stared at her for a moment.

 

 

“Did you hear me?” she asked.

 

 

“Yeah, I mean- it’s just- I don’t know if he can handle that. He’s been having a hard time lately and,”

 

 

“Yeah, I know. That’s why he’s gonna come with me so I can _help him._ ”

 

 

Steve sighed, “Okay. You’re right. Can I talk to him first?”

 

 

“Affirmative, Cap. I didn’t want to break the news anyways,” she said, then gestured to the kitchen where Bucky sat atop the counter, nervously swinging his legs. Steve shuffled towards him.

 

 

“Buck,” he started.

 

 

“Just get it outta the way, Stevie, I can smell the bad news on you. ‘Stinks.” Bucky said.

 

 

“Fine. Nat wants you in the hospital. Tonight,” Steve said.

 

 

Bucky only stared back at him, then flickered his eyes to the nurse dressed in solid black scrubs. 

 

 

"You can't do this," he whispered, his voice cracking on the last word, a sheen of tears springing onto his eyes.

 

 

"Sorry, Barnes. I can, as your friend and as a medical professional," she said, crossing her arms, "Get dressed, pack a bag. We're going tonight, while I have an open bed on my floor." She turned towards to door, dragging her scale behind her, "I'll leave you alone, but I want to see you boys in the lobby at 17:00," she said, before closing it behind her. Just as soon as the door clicked shut, Steve was on the counter next to Bucky, curled up almost on his lap. 

 

 

"We'll be okay, baby. It'll be okay," he whispered, running his finger's through Bucky's hair, and wiping the tears off of his cheeks. 

 

 

"I didn't think I'd ever get here again." Bucky's voice trembled. 

 

 

"It's just a bump in the road, Buck. It's all okay," he soothed. Steve kissed every part of Bucky's face, eyelids, nose, cheekbones, jaw, chin, temple, lips, and everything in between, before he finally climbs off of the counter and started looking for duffel bags to put their things in. 

 

 

 

    

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are ouchies to come. hahahahahahastabme


	5. смерть письмо

20:33, Jan 1st, 2019

 

 

It's been 6 days since Bucky was admitted to Inpatient Medicine, and the 6th night that Steve has been by his side in the small, twin size bed. He lay next to Bucky, brushing the hair out of his face, and listening to his breathing, which sounded like wooden rollercoaster frames, just as the cart is raced over them.   

 

 

09:02, Jan 7th, 2019

 

 

"So," the doctor started, "It looks like James' emphysema is becoming something of an issue." 

 

 

"More than it already was?" Steve asked, growing increasingly concerned, Bucky staying silent. 

 

 

"I'm afraid so," said the doctor, failing to hide the pity on his face. "They must have overlooked it when you were in the Children's Hospital, James, but your emphysema has reached Stage IV. There isn't a lot that we can do,"

 

 

Bucky kept the emotion off of his face, clenching his jaw instead. They both knew what this meant.

 

 

"I'm afraid your life expectancy has become very limited, James. I would say that you have around 6 months, on the outside," he said, making eye contact with neither Steve nor Bucky. 

 

 

The world became silent, and still, and soundless for Steve. 

It became a rush of noise and motion and the hot gush of blood in his ears for Bucky. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can someone please bring me some bandaids


	6. конец линии

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or, "Before".

 

~~~~ 09:17, Jan 7th, 2019

 

 

The doctor takes his clipboard, stands up, pat's Bucky's shoulder, and leaves. 

 

 

Steve does not move, at first. He doesn't move his eyes away from the space where the doctor was, he doesn't turn to look at Bucky, he doesn't blink.

Bucky moves immediately, he clambers to the edge of the bed where Steve is sitting, in a catatonic state, and almost breaks the smaller man in his arms. Steve presses his face into Bucky's neck and breaks fully, sobbing, clinging to his arms like they're the edge of a building and he's about to fall off. They stay like this for what feels like it could be eternity, drowning in the solid feeling of each other's skin. 

 

10:02 

 

"You should go home," Bucky whispered as he rubbed circles over Steve's back. 

 

 

"There's nothing to go home to," he replied, his voice cracking. 

 

 

"Then you're gonna find something to go home to," Bucky said through tears, pulling away from the embrace, grabbing Steve's shoulders, "You're gonna go out and find someone who can take better care of you."

 

 

Steve resigned to a sob that shook his entire body, and didn't stop for a long time. 

 

19:32

 

There was a knock on the door, just as it had gone dark outside their hospital room. 

 

 

"It's me," Natasha said. "Can I come in, Barnes?" 

 

 

Steve uncurled himself off of Bucky, who called "Sure," in a voice as raw as asphalt. Natasha opened the door gently, slipped in, and closed it gently behind her. 

 

 

"Steve, can I have a second with Bucky?" She asked. Steve nodded and slid off the bed, padding into the hall, shutting the door again. 

 

 

"яша," she started, once they were alone, "Listen to me, and listen carfully," she sat on the foot of the bed. "You are still alive right now. You still have a boy out there who won't be able to go on if you shut him out," she nodded her head towards the door. "You know, as a nurse, what it does to people to know that they are going to die. They abandon people they love, they hurt people because they think it's the right thing to do, and you have seen, from the outside, that it was never the right thing to do." She moved to sit next to Bucky, and wiped the quiet tears rolling down his face. "Я тебя люблю," she said, tears springing to her eyes. "You're the baby brother I never had, Barnes." 

 

 

"'Love you too, Nat," his voice trembled, resting his head on her shoulder. "You're the big sister that I," he cracked a smirk, "never really wanted, actually. But I'll miss you, wherever I'm going." 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 "Stevie?" Bucky asked, nervously to the blond laying next to him in their hospital bed. "I have an idea, you can say no if you want, but," 

 

 

"Just tell me, Buck." Steve cut his rambling off, grabbing his hand and squeezing it lightly. 

 

 

"I don't- I don't wanna go like this, ya' know?" He started, trying to ignore the tears welling up in Steve's eyes. "I don't wanna go while I'm hooked up to the pumps that they'll inevitably hook me up on, all wheezing and stuff," his voice trembled. "So I thought of this idea, that instead of doing that, maybe we could just go home, and I heard of this pill that'll just off me real quick, no pain or anything. I just go to sleep," 

 

 

Steve shut him up with a kiss, wetting Bucky's cheeks with his own tears.  

 

 

"You know I couldn't do that, Buck. I couldn't take you home and watch you- you know. We can't." His voice cracked. 

 

 

"I don't want you to have to watch, Stevie," Bucky said, his cheeks shiny with tears. "I think- I don't know- I don't want you to see me leaving anyway," he said, averting Steve's eyes. "It's my decision, and I don't wanna be here, baby. 

 

 

Steve visibly steels himself, "Fine," he said, closing his eyes, almost squeezing them shut. "We can go home, but you're not taking pills. We'll just wait and see what happens," he said, the words painful to say. 

 

 

 

 

07:33, Jan 8th

 

"James, I would like you to be aware of the fact that leaving Against Medical Advisement usually results in insurance not allowing you to be readmitted to hospital. Are you prepared to take on the responsibility that this imposes?" The doctor asked. Bucky squeezed Steve's hand as he sat on the edge of the hospital bed. 

 

 

"Yeah, we'll be fine," he said, not looking to explain his plan. 

 

 

"Well, if you're sure, then you have some papers to sign. I can go get them, but you really need to be sure of the choice you're making," the doctor said, in a condescending tone. 

 

 

"Bring em'. I know what I'm getting into." Bucky's chest wheezed. 

 

 

The papers were signed that day, and Bucky walked out hours later with Steve by his side. 

 

 

 

 

10:09, Jan 15th 

 

 

 Steve meandered through their small, cheap refrigerator, looking for something for the both of them to have for breakfast.

 

 

"Buck, what're these?" He held up a small plastic bag he'd found on top of the fridge, a carton of milk in his other hand.

 

 

"Oh," Bucky startled from his perch on the couch, "Those're nothing, I need em'," he stuttered, contradicting himself. The bag contained two small, grey, pills. 

 

 

"Bucky," he started cautiously, trying to keep the composure in his voice, "If these are what I think they are," he trailed off, staring at the pills. 

 

 

"Please, Stevie," the desperation in his weak voice buckled Steve's knees. The milk pooled around his legs and soaked into his sweatpants. 

 

 

"Stevie," he whispered, quickly padding into the kitchen, kneeling into the pool of milk, curling around him, holding him together as he fell apart. 

 

 

"I thought you wouldn't-" Steve's voice trembled and cut out. 

 

 

"I know, baby," he whispered. "It's okay, I wasn't gonna do it, I swear," he soothed, wishing away the seizing and cramping in his lungs. 

 

 

"There's no reason to have these if you weren't gonna-" 

 

 

"I don't know what I was thinking, baby doll. It's gonna be okay," he wheezed.

 

 

"No, it's not," Steve whispered. Bucky held him tighter, 

 

 

"I know," he whispered. "Let's get all this cleaned up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is an ode to all the fics i have read in the past that i will never ever forget.


	7. End

May 5th, 2019

 

 

 

It was starting to feel like spring in Brooklyn. The snow was drying up, and the trees were starting to sprout small, scant leaves. Steve thought it might have been a nice day for art, or just for walking, enjoying, had it not been the day that he found Bucky. In that moment he was still beautiful, just like the weather, despite the fact that he was alone, he was still cold, and that there was no turning back. 

He found him on the kitchen floor, curled into his frail body, eyes closed, mouth closed, hair down, still-wet cheeks. Steve didn't scream, until he did. He didn't cry, until he did. He fell onto the floor next to his body and kissed every part of his face, frightened by the cold, determined to somehow love him alive again. It didn't work. 

A lined-paper note sat crumpled in his hand, which lay relaxed on the kitchen tile, rather than clutched in panic like it was a few hours ago. In retrospect, Steve thinks, he should have made sure Bucky couldn't get more pills. He shouldn't have left him alone to go to the art exhibition, and he shouldn't have let him leave the hospital at all. He did all of them, and blamed himself for the crumpled paper on the floor. 

The writing was shaky, he had written it down fast, after he'd taken the pills. 

 

_Stevie,_

_I don't want you to see me like this. I didn't want you to see me leaving- it's better if you just know that I left. I love you. I love you more than I've ever loved anyone, and I hate myself for leaving you. I don't know what this will do to you, but I know you can move on. You can find someone better than me. I love you. - Bucky_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, for real. In the first few chapters I talked about this story coming from my experience, and I'd just like to say that no one I was close to from treatment has died. Thank you for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I wasn't sure if this was worth continuing, so leave a comment letting me know what you think!


End file.
